Perfection
by Hernesdaughter
Summary: In this sequel to Perfect Erik and Christine celebrate their wedding night. wink wink! Complete.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimers: None of these characters belong to me. Please put them back when you're done. Grateful thanks to Beth, Kristin, Marian and Lena for beta reading; all remaining problems/mistakes/errors are mine. No money was made off this endeavor, but a great number of sleepless nights have finally been put to rest._

Perfection 

"_Perfection" is the follow-up to "Perfect" and is rated M. Please enjoy._

Chapter 1 

Madame Giry and the Phantom stood in the flies, watching the activity below. She turned to him with her news. "Erik, I have arranged for the priest to marry you and Christine next week."

"Where?" he asked, apprehensive. He did not want to risk going to a church.

"Here, in the House chapel," she replied, and could see his relief right away.

"I knew you would not want to go outside." She smiled, beckoning him to accompany her from their talk. "I have something for you. A wedding gift, of sorts. Come and see."

They retired to her room, where Fleur motioned him to sit on her chaise lounge. Bringing a small wooden box from her dresser, she opened it to reveal a set of condoms. Made of the new latex rubber and colored to resemble skin, they were the very latest in preventing both infection and pregnancy.

Ever the pragmatist, Fleur explained, "To use these correctly they must go on before you come near her, or else they will not block conception. When you are finished, wash them out thoroughly, then let them dry, but do not use them if they develop cracks, or there will be no protection." She placed the box on the table nearby.

They were expensive, and not easy to come by. "Thank you," he said gratefully. He was thankful for the gift, and to Fleur for keeping her promise to help him make a life with Christine without passing on his curse. He could feel the weight of it lifting, and it was easier to breathe now as he thought of his beloved. Fleur came to sit next to him on the lounge.

Now came the hard part. Fleur had no idea how much he knew, but it was too important to let it pass. "There is something peculiar to women the first time they lie with a man. You know about this?" Certainly the House was a licentious place, but that might not help.

He nodded. "Our wedding night," he said, nervously pulling at his gloves. "I won't be the cause of pain for her, Fleur. I've already frightened her; I won't do anything that worsens her fear."

"Why do you say you will hurt her, my dear?" she asked quietly. It was harder to talk to him about this than all the ballet girls put together. His life had been so tragic, she could only guess his reasons for feeling as he did now. "It is different for every woman; there is no way to tell what will happen until it does."

"There are things that go on here when couples think no one is watching, or don't care. I've seen so much…" he stopped, agitated.

Fleur placed a hand on his shoulder. "We have all seen so much. Christine has too. But I will talk to her as well before the wedding, yes? And you will see, it will be all right." She smiled warmly.

"I… know it hurts," he said, looking guilty. There was something odd in his tone.

"You do? And how do you know this?" she asked, suspicious.

He met her eyes briefly, and that one glance told her all she needed to know.

Slowly she realized what he implied. "Surely, you do not mean…" she began, disbelieving.

He swallowed, looking down at the floor, motionless.

"What! You were spying on Alphonse and I on our _wedding_ night!" Shocked, she raised her hands to her face, horrified that her most private moments had been observed. He'd been there, out of her sight, but she had not been out of his.

Still watching the floor, he managed, "I was afraid for you, Fleur. I didn't know _what_ he was capable of. I was afraid he would hurt you," he finished, barely audible. Were he not so fearful himself, he would never have told her the truth from all those years ago. Finally he risked looking up, knowing she would hate him for this but knowing also he would go mad if he did not say what preyed upon his mind.

She felt sick. "Do you think me such a fool as to marry someone who would use me so?" she asked shrilly, hurt, and then the anger began to build.

"Of course not! But you were so enamored you would have suffered anything for him! How long was he here before you married? A few months, that was all! All I knew…" he took her hands, bringing them down from her face, "was that I was afraid for you. I had to be there in case you were…mistreated."

She heard his words, but the betrayal was too much to bear, a fist closing around her heart. Snatching her hands back out of his grasp, she cried, "How could you _do_ such a thing to me?" She stood, turning on him.

Desperate for her understanding, he shouted, "I was _fourteen_! I was _scared_ for you! For _me_! What if something happened to you, what would I do, where would I go? I had to _protect_ you!"

"_I did not need your protection_!" she raged.

"_But what if you had_!" he thundered back. They were too loud now; someone might hear.

Incensed, Fleur paced the carpet in front of the lounge, and him. There were few times when she questioned her impulse to spirit away a starving, abused child, but this was one of them.

He stood, holding out one gloved hand to her, although he knew she would not take it. "Fleur," he pleaded, "Please. You don't know all I've seen. Not long before you married Alphonse, there was another girl, younger than you were. A seamstress' daughter." The sounds of that night came back to him as he stood in Fleur's room. The darkness, the laughter coming from both as the man had pulled the girl into the shadows...and then her screams as he had taken her, not even his age yet, so suddenly, brutally. The man had enjoyed it, the pain he caused, and the girl was left weeping, alone. Erik had been too scared to move, frozen in place. It was months before he could he could sleep peacefully again.

Abruptly he came back to Fleur's room, and their argument. Anything he could say about that night was inadequate. He settled for, "She…was not treated kindly." He paused. "Can you not forgive me? I was afraid for you, that was all." He let the hand fall.

Fleur lowered her voice. "And did you watch? The entire time? Did you _see_?" she asked coldly.

"No. I left after…awhile." Miserable, he sat down on her lounge again.

"After _what_? Come, you cannot tell me this and then keep the truth from me! After what?" Her fury was palpable.

"After he…" he searched for the right words, gauging her expression. Fleur was so angry he dared not provoke her further. "He took your innocence. You cried out in pain, I almost burst through the door when I heard." The raw emotion on his face only infuriated her more.

"_Innocence_!" she snapped. "He took nothing I did not freely give! Did I struggle? Did I scream? Did I run away?"

"No," he whispered, closing his eyes, and hung his head, wishing he could die and get it over with. He felt it when Fleur stopped pacing, stood in front of him for long, silent moments. He dared not look up as she considered his transgression.

He truly regretted what he had done. That she could tell. Of course he had said nothing through the years; he never thought he would ever touch a woman himself, certainly never expected to fall in love. How much fear did he have, that he told her this now? He was thirty-three, yet at times Fleur felt he was still a child. She saw the awkward, thin boy he had been at fourteen, and how fragile he was back then. How dependent he'd been on her: mother and father, sister and friend, all in one. Hiding, constantly afraid of being discovered. At fourteen she had shown him how to shave. If he'd been that worried for her, if he'd seen a young girl raped, perhaps she could understand, and she softened toward him. An only child, he was the little brother she never had; she could never stay angry with him.

"Why not?" she asked, the worst of her anger gone now. She watched him carefully, aware of the purpose she was heading toward, but for which he needed guidance. At least let his admission count toward something.

"I…can't say." He steadfastly stared at the floor, but Fleur would not let him off so easily. He had confessed, and the price of her absolution was his education. She took both his shoulders and shook him, forcing him to look up at her.

"Yes, you can. Say it, Erik. You were there, you saw. Why did I not scream and fight him off, why did I not run? Say it!" Her hands held his shoulders, but she truly pinned him with her eyes, held him there while he struggled to avoid her.

His face was burning red. "You enjoyed it," he whispered, pained. Finally she let him escape her gaze, taking her hands away as well. He was not sure which had been stronger as he breathed again, recovering.

"Yes, of _course_ I did." She sighed and turned away, resigned. Done was done, and there was no undoing the past. The important thing now was that _he_ understand. "Yes, it is true. The first time, for the first moments, no one can tell what happens. The true measure of a man is how he treats such a lover, the first time they lie together. But after that…after that there can be great love." She sat beside him again, at last. "Erik, can you truly believe it is only men who have passion? How many times have you seen a woman pull a man into _her_ embrace? Have you not seen, with all those couples, the fire in the eyes of the women as well?"

"Yes," he nodded, seeing such fire in her eyes for just a moment, before it retreated again.

"Well, there you have it, my dear." She was not pleased, but she was no longer cross with him.

He straightened at her use of 'my dear' again. She forgave him, then, and the wash of relief was a welcome joy. She took his arm once again, making him look directly at her.

"Erik, listen to me well. I know you are afraid, but this first time will not ever be repeated, for either of you. Arouse her, but again, wait for her to come to you. Caress her, shower your passion on her until she feels it too. Then it will be her passion also, and then she will not run, either." She smiled at him, a secret forming in her eyes. "She may yet surprise you."

Later that evening Fleur found a drawing on her lounge, done in a familiar style. It was one of Erik's, but from long ago. A sleeping Meg, no more than six months old, in aged colors. Beneath it were written words no more than a few hours old. "It was a good marriage," was all it said. The Ballet Mistress smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 

Five days later Christine answered Madame Giry's summons to see her after rehearsal. Knocking on the Ballet Mistress' private door, the young soprano heard, "Come in."

"Ah, good," Madame Giry said, welcoming Christine with a smile. The older woman gestured toward the coffee and biscuits waiting near her lounge. "Please, my dear, sit down, have something to drink, a bite to eat. It has been a long day," she said, sitting on a chair across from the bride to be. Pouring coffee, she stirred in cream and sugar, then plunged ahead. Fleur had never been one to mince words. "Christine, you have questions about marriage, yes? Perhaps the wedding night?"

Christine had questions, but was not sure she could ask them. It was so hard to say what her mind screamed at her to know, her mouth refusing to give voice to them.

Fleur knew this reluctance all too well. She had not been Ballet Mistress all these years without the girls coming to her, openly or furtively, with every concern. At least with Christine she knew it was not some of the grimmer things she had dealt with. She took a sip of her coffee, waiting. "Come, my dear, you must want to ask something." Still Christine was quiet, troubled. Fleur put her cup down. "Very well. I will ask _you_, then, yes?"

Christine brightened at that, nodding. "Yes, all right."

"Then let us begin at the beginning. A woman's first time to lie with a man, you know it is different than any time after that, yes? You have heard about the virginity, the maidenhead?" she asked, gentle but forthright. There was a time to put aside politesse, but that did not mean substituting crudity.

Christine's face fell. "Yes. Some women say it hurts, some say there is so much blood, I don't know what to believe anymore. I'm so nervous! I love him, I know he loves me, but still…I can't help it." She held her cup as if her life depended on it.

"Of course you are nervous, my dear, it is only natural. As for what will happen, do not listen to the others; they are like a bunch of hens clucking their tongues." She leaned forward, squeezing Christine's arm reassuringly. "Listen to me. You know you are a daughter to me, I will tell you the truth: the first time a woman lies with a man, no one can say what will happen. Sometimes there is pain, sometimes not. Sometimes there is blood, sometimes not. It is different for everyone. The important thing is to wait for the right time, when you are _sure_ you want to make love with your beloved." She took a sip of her coffee, waiting for a reaction. Christine looked somewhat relieved, but Fleur was not yet done.

"Keep these things in mind, my dear: first, if there is pain, it will not last. Done is done, and there is an end to it quickly. Now if there is blood, that is simple; put a towel down underneath you, as you do every month to spare the dormitory sheets." She paused, making sure she caught the young woman's eyes. "But the most important thing is that great passion overcomes all—find your passion, let it carry you, and you will see, it will not matter to you then as it does now. Your passion will overcome your fear, and then it will _be_ the right time." Smiling indulgently, she finished her coffee, saw that Christine's cup was still half full.

"Christine? My dear, are you still worried?" she asked.

"Not like before, no. Thank you, Madame," she answered, taking another sip. "But…what if I do something wrong?"

Fleur sighed, thinking. "Child, when it comes to love, there is no right or wrong. There are only the two of you, and whatever feels right to you both, that is right." She decided to tell the young woman what she had been holding back. "I know you are virgin, my dear, but what you may not know is that he is, too. Do not worry; there will be no comparing."

Finally Christine's anxiety eased, and Fleur knew she had guessed right. Of course, Erik being twice her age, Christine had assumed he was experienced in this. She leaned forward, earnest now, taking Christine's hand.

"Christine, you know Erik is not like other men. He has been alone for so long, never expected to fall in love. He is more worried than you, my child, if the truth were known. So. I have bought you something you may use, or not, as you wish." She opened a green velvet drawstring pouch and removed a phallus-shaped object, slender but nonetheless quite obvious in its purpose. The smooth, glazed ceramic was white, decorated with twining vines of blossoming red roses. It looked like it belonged on display somewhere, it was so pretty. Fleur handed it to her with a kindly smile.

Christine held it for a moment, looking uncertainly at Madame Giry. She knew what it was but would not admit what things she had seen in the women's dormitories when the Ballet Mistress was not there. Still, she had never held one before, and was fascinated. It was far better than the others she had glimpsed, a work of art in itself.

"It is called a nun's jewel, or in Italian, a _diletto_, which means 'delight'. You can see why." Fleur casually retrieved it and put it back in the velvet bag, pulling the drawstring shut. "They can be useful for the wedding night. Sometimes the groom is too nervous, or the maidenhead is too strong, and some help is needed." She shrugged, smiling. "So, now you have some help."

"I have some other things for you, my dear." She brought out a stoppered glass bottle, colorless glass holding a golden liquid, the twisted stopper striped in gold. "Sweet almond oil. It is important, when making love, that nothing is dry. That will cause pain no matter how many times you lie together. Use as much as you like: more is always better, but remember to keep everything very clean. Infection is not something you want." Putting the oil back on the table, Fleur picked up a wooden box. "This is a contraceptive jelly," she told the young woman, opening the box to reveal a heavy glass jar and a frosted glass applicator. "If and when you decide to have children, it should not be on your wedding night. Your career would be over just as it is starting, and you would not have the pleasure of being newlyweds if you became pregnant so soon." She unscrewed the jar, showing the milky substance to Christine. "I have already given Erik condoms, but you should also use this to make doubly sure. Sometimes there can be tiny cracks in the rubber, and you do not want to lie awake at night worrying." She showed Christine how the applicator worked, drawing up a tube's worth and releasing it back into the jar. "Place one tube of this all the way inside you before you let him in, and of course always make sure he is dressed appropriately before you open the door." She smiled wryly, and Christine realized she had made a joke. Nervous laughter erupted out of her at the visions that came to mind, and whereas she had simply been afraid before, now she could put some of it aside. The unknown was still there, but it was no longer the end of the world.

One last thing nagged at her, though. "But what shall I do? If he's also virgin, and more nervous than I?" She'd been afraid of making a bad showing compared to the other lovers he must have had; but she had also been counting on his experience to make their wedding night easier for her. To find out now that he was just as nervous, just as new, posed a different riddle altogether.

The Ballet Mistress looked at her young charge knowingly. "Compliment him. Reassure him with loving words. That will do wonders for his confidence."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 

The Opera Ghost took his bride by the hand and led her down the stairs, to the boat, guiding them to his chambers below the House. She had a bundle with her, clothing and such things as she would need for a night spent with her Phantom, now spouse, Angel always. The boat came to a stop, and once again he helped her out, but this time he wrapped his cloak around them both, enveloping her in it and bending to kiss her, the sparkling white gown she wore crinkling as he did so.

He broke their kiss to stroke her hair, his eyes tender as he marveled that she was really here, was really his, after so much longing, so much hoping against hope that she would see beyond appearances to the man he truly was. His eyes shone with emotion: Christine saw it, understood, caressing his face with such caring he thought he must be dreaming.

"Husband," she whispered, making the simple word into a prayer, her eyes never leaving his.

He never thought he would have that title, never thought he would say its match. "Wife," he said wondrously, his gloved fingertips reaching for her face to brush it lightly, smiling back at her and meeting for another kiss. This one was simple, a mere touching of lips, but it affirmed their bond and served as their 'Amen.'

And he sang to her then;

"_You alone can make my soul take flight; _

_help me make the Music of the Night."_

She leaned into him, whispering, "Always," their arms around each other, content to simply _be_ for the moment. Stepping away from the boat, he extended a hand to indicate the rooms here. "This is now yours. Please, claim it as you wish." Erik's salary of 20,000 francs a month was not pure extortion; his set and costume designs were used regularly, and as House Architect he supplied the plans to accomplish all building and repairs. Along with his musical compositions, he was able to live quite well, and his chambers reflected that wealth. Red velvet and gold were everywhere, enormous candelabras and mirrors abounded. Christine was momentarily overwhelmed; though she had married her Teacher, she had trouble thinking of his belongings as hers.

Looking around, she found a place where she could change and put her own blanket-wrapped belongings. He was taking off his jacket and tie, the cloak and gloves already laid out by his wardrobe, when she came over to him, still in her wedding gown. "I can't do this myself," she said, "help me please?" and turned around, the long row of tiny buttons facing him enticingly.

"Certainly, my Angel," he replied with a smile, coming to stand behind her. He started at the top, undoing one, then another, gradually freeing her from the gown's restrictions. Three, four…and leaned into her, his hands going around her waist and slowly traveling up, his breath warm on the nape of her neck where he rubbed his good side and kissed her, lingering…her "Mmm," of enjoyment made his heart beat faster as he pulled her against him. Five, six, seven buttons, and his hands slid back around her hips sensuously, running up to the top of the gown and lowering the fabric slowly until her breasts were released. Letting his kisses drift around her shoulder, up her neck, down her upper arm, he slid his hands up over her breasts, the rosy centers and provocative nipples standing out, begging to be fondled under his finely trained musician's fingers. Her moan was his music as he did so, rolling and pulling gently, his small motions making her lean back against him, her knees weak. "Is this what my Angel wanted?" he purred in her ear, rubbing the jacket's sleeves over her nipples to make her gasp. "Yes," she breathed, having trouble making her body obey her. His hands, his mouth, his scent, his presence behind her would not let her say more, only bring his hands back to her breasts.

He wanted to stay here forever, the feel of her under his hands, the lovely smell of her hair, her body, her breath sweet as she turned her head and he obligingly kissed her mouth, their tongues reaching for each other, softly capturing their lips. Her nipples strained for him, her weight against him welcome as he held her up, her soft sounds as he stroked and caressed her music he'd never imagined, delighting him with the discovery. He'd only dreamt of drawing such want out of her, relished being able to do so. The thrill of power raced through him; his body hardened in response, begging for its own release. "Change," he commanded, letting her lean forward against the wardrobe to undo the remaining buttons, "and come back to me quickly, my Angel." His kisses were wet against her back as he peeled the dress off her arms. Her breath caught as he raised the gown's skirt, running his hand up the back of her thigh, over one buttock and down the inside of her leg.

She could only nod her head, her eyes closing of their own volition as she managed to turn around, his hands stroking her breasts as he lowered his head to take her mouth again. This time she moaned into him, putting her arms around him so she would not fall, her legs no longer accommodating her wishes. "Go," he told her huskily, and she went, shaking with excitement as she stripped off the wedding gown, laying it over a chair back and putting on the nightgown she'd brought. She could barely make her hands work to use the contraceptive.

The mask was gossamer thin and shimmering gold. An Angel's wing replaced the white leather mask on the right side of his face, delicate tips disappearing into his hair as it gracefully fanned out and away. His deformity covered, he felt much better as he looked in the mirror. Christine could ask him to remove the black wig, but the mask he could not do without, at least for this one night. He hoped she would like it.

He waited for his bride on the phoenix bed, his black trousers and white shirt contrasted against the red rose petals he'd strewn over the white sheets. The red velvet blankets were turned halfway back invitingly, and there were dozens of red roses in stands around the bed. No matter what happened tonight, Christine would know he loved her with all his heart. He looked around one last time, touched the box Fleur had given him where it sat on the little table, and leaned back against one gigantic, silver wing. His heart was pounding so loudly he could hear it echoing off the walls, nervousness and excitement combined.

He forgot all that as she came around the black lace curtains and took his breath away. Of course she was beautiful, but the ivory lace gown she wore was embroidered with red roses and tied with black ribbons, cascading down her shoulders and along her arms, her bare thighs peeking through the half-length open front with each step as she came toward him. Her long dark hair curled around her in a cloud, giving the impression of a delicate porcelain doll.

She in turn stopped, taking in the bed, the roses, and him with delight. Her slow smile was like the Sun rising to him. "I've found my Angel," she said, holding out her hands to him. When he rose and took them she startled him by kneeling at his feet. "Do you know how beautiful you are?" she asked, and the pure love in her eyes swelled his heart to bursting. Never in his wildest fantasies could he have imagined this.

Standing over her, holding her hands, he could think of only one thing: she had called him beautiful. Never had he thought to hear any such thing from anyone, much less such a beauty as Christine. Stunned, he could not think what to say. He swallowed hard. "If I am," he began, shaken, "It is only because you say so." And with that he raised her up, kissing her hands reverently. She lifted one to touch the golden mask, marveling at its elaborate detail. "Did you make this?" she asked, awestruck.

"I made it for you," he replied. "Do you like it?" he asked, delighted with her reaction.

"It's exquisite, like you," she answered, meeting his eyes again, and again he was taken aback by the emotion in them. She meant what she said; he could hardly believe it.

"No, no one can compare to you, Christine. My Angel." And he brought his lips to hers, placing one small kiss there. As he drew back she followed to kiss him again, her arm pulling his around her waist as she kissed him slowly, her lips softly capturing and releasing his, first one, then the other as she pressed her body into him. She thought her heart would leap from its cage at what was to come, excitement and want and nervousness all mixed up together.

"Christine," he struggled to get out, "whatever you want, whatever you desire—you have only to say," he told her. "I am your willing slave." He couldn't help himself; the time for lies was over, and this was the truth.

"No," she corrected as she traced the feathers of the mask with a fingertip; "Not my slave. My husband, my Angel, and I love you. Can't you see it in my eyes?"

"Yes," he answered joyfully, kissing her deeply as their bodies met and twined together, legs and arms melting into each other in the desire to become one. He thought he would lose himself in their kiss, not knowing where he ended and she began, flesh merging into one single person, complete.

Slowly, she began unbuttoning his shirt cuffs, pulling the hem out of his black trousers. She wanted to feel him under her hands, press his warm breast to hers. But when she tried removing it completely, he stopped her with another kiss, and then another. One last time she tugged on the linen, finally realizing he was subtly refusing her. Why?

Taking his hands she steered him toward the great bed, the rose petals crushing beneath her as she laid down on them, their delicate aroma filling the air as she held out her arms and he joined her, lying side by side.

She took his wrist, her eyes on his, kissing along the inside of his arm until the fabric stopped her progress. She switched to the other wrist, saw his eyes close as he let himself enjoy her caresses. Running her fingers along the linen sleeve, she came to his bare shoulder, bent to kiss that too. He sighed in contentment, drawing her full length on top of him for a long kiss, leisurely, unhurried. Her hair fell in a curtain around them, marking off their own private world where their kisses were sweet and neverending. Her hand explored his breast, the silky skin amid the field of scars—and stopped, dismayed.

"What is it?" he asked anxiously. Moving to his side, she touched the scars gingerly; even knowing they were old, it pained her to see them, to know what caused them. "These," she said, her face troubled as she met his gaze and touched them, looking down again, running her finger over one.

He said nothing, but his face reddened, his breathing deepening as she ran her fingers over his torso, inside the open shirt, down to the waistband of the trousers. One of them looked just like the scar Meg had on her back, where she'd fallen onto debris when she was twelve. The scar had almost disappeared after months of rubbing it with oil as Madame Giry had instructed, but Erik's were still there, still white against his lovely skin, marring an otherwise perfect canvas, and marring his psyche as well.

"Wait," Christine told him, an idea forming as she left the bed to get the bundle she'd brought down with her. Ignoring his call of "Christine?" she hurried back just as he was sitting up, unfolding the blanket to take out the bottle of oil. It could be useful for more than one thing, and she smiled a little to herself, patting the bed for him to lie down again.

Erik was immensely relieved as his bride rejoined him; for a moment he thought he'd frightened her away. "What is that?" he asked.

"Almond oil," she answered, leaning over to tenderly kiss his lips, smiling at his puzzlement. Dabbing the oil on her fingers, she touched the scar nearest his throat, massaging it in little circles. He tensed, but she bent to gently kiss the scar when she was done and moved on to another, replenishing the oil and stroking the next one, slowly traveling down his breast, and he began to relax, giving in to her ministrations. Wordlessly, she began to hum as she worked, one of their favorites, and he found the notes running through his mind as she continued. The distraction was welcome as she moved to where the shirt still covered him, allowing him to resist tensing up again until she tried to turn him. She might as well have tried moving the House.

She stopped, his passive resistance puzzling her. He'd enjoyed the oil so far, her gentle kisses on his scars after each was properly seen to. Why would he not let her continue? "Angel?" she inquired, tugging on the shirt where he lay unmoving. And then she knew. Of course. He'd been tortured, a young child whipped by what must have seemed a giant, raining blows down on him from all angles. Her heart went out to him for the small boy he'd been, for the inhuman cruelty he'd suffered. She put one arm by his head, her other tracing the outline of his jaw, down to his throat. "I won't hurt you," she whispered.

"I know, Christine" he replied, looking into her compassionate eyes, but still he did not move, did not turn around to let her finish. It was too enormous a thing to ask.

She put one hand on his chest, over his heart, and felt her fingers pushed by its rapid beating, heard how fast and deep his breath came although he tried to conceal it from her. He was terrified, and it was infinitely sad. What kind of life had he known, indeed, that he was afraid of _her_?

"Please," she whispered, cradling his face with one hand, seeing the barely disguised panic there, "Let me heal you. They'll go away if you let me work on them." She thought, _and perhaps your mind will heal as well._ Those scars ran much deeper. "You let me see your back before, can't you trust me now?"

The hurt in her eyes made him feel foolish for holding on to fears from so long ago. He searched for a way to explain the gut-wrenching anxiety to another, came up empty. True, he'd shown her the whole extent of his scars when she'd asked about his past, what was different about now? Finally he answered. "We were in front of a mirror then. I could still see you."

She looked away, considering his words. And then her gaze fell upon one of the large mirrors, and, following it down, saw there were wheels on its immense frame. _What if? _ She smiled to herself. "Then we shall have mirrors again," she told him, wiping her hands on the towel she'd brought with her. Getting up she went to one of the mirrors, carefully maneuvering it to rest beside the bed. When he saw what she was doing, he too rose and wrestled another into place on the opposite side. She was clever, and he realized he would have to go through with it now. Perhaps it was for the best. At least, with the mirrors here, he could see what she was doing, and his dread subsided a bit.

Still it was agony for him to consent, letting her take one arm out of its sleeve, then the other, and turn his back to her where he lay on the bed, the shirt still underneath him. He grabbed two pillows and held them under his chest, propping himself up to see better, his head turned sideways to watch her.

Feeling him tremble under her hands, Christine remembered seeing one of the stablehands with a fearful horse. He'd kept one hand on the animal at all times, never lifting it off completely so as to avoid startling the poor thing. Her Angel was like an abused animal, unwilling to take his eyes off her, afraid of what might be coming. She would do the same, hoping he would gentle for her as the young horse had done.

Sitting next to his left side, she whispered, "It's all right," and kissed his cheek. "_Shhhh_, I won't hurt you." One hand held the bottle while the other stayed on him, starting at his shoulder where he could easily see. Touching a drop of oil onto the hand she stroked him with, she slowly massaged it into the nearest scar, being careful not to let her fingernails touch him, short though they were. "See?" she told him after the first one, "It's not so bad, is it?" and got a faint "No," out of him. Encouraged, she began to hum again, running her fingertips to the next one, letting a drop of oil fall through her fingers and rubbing it in, and then another. She worked down his side, never letting her fingers move from his sight, each scar bringing him further along toward relaxing, until finally he took a deep breath and let it out again, his eyes closing halfway.

Her hand never leaving him, she worked closer to the middle of his back now, feeling him tense again as her hands slipped partially from sight, even in the mirrors. She whispered to him again, "_Shhhhh_, I didn't hurt you, I won't now, Angel," and continued despite his attempt to unobtrusively shift to where he could see. Of course it was futile, but still he tried.

Slowly he became used to her touch, but his muscles remained tight as he watched her move through the middle to his right side, her fingers never leaving his skin, although it was becoming awkward for her to hover so long. Still, she dared not risk breaking contact to come around to his other side, and continued just as calmly, carefully pouring one drop after another onto her fingers and working on each scar. At last she came back up to his shoulder and the last scar glistened, felt her lips on it, and she put the oil aside.

Finished with his scars, she used both hands now, just barely brushing her fingertips up and down his back for the sheer pleasure of it. She was rewarded with a deep breath from her Angel, his body relaxing at long last as he settled into the pillows.

Much as he wanted to trust his beloved, he was thankful when she was done, brushing him all over instead of concentrating on each reminder of the whip. Looking in the mirror he saw the tranquil expression on her face, realized his own appeared almost peaceful as well. Perhaps she was right, and in time he could stop fearing her touch where he could not see. "Are you finished?" he inquired quietly, undemanding.

Reluctantly she answered. "Yes. Are you so anxious to hide from me again?" she asked, disappointed.

"Forgive me, my Angel. I wish it weren't so," he replied, turning over and holding her across the shoulders as she read his face, the eye framed by the golden angel wing showing even more emotion, if such a thing were possible. No words seemed adequate. He settled for moving the strands of her hair back over her ear, caressing her neck. "I love you," he whispered earnestly, his normally light eyes dark and intense.

"I know," she told him. "But I hoped you would like it," she added, clearly wounded.

"And so I did," he answered, "But you must understand, Christine, such things are not easily changed," he explained. Seeing her disappointment, he asked, "Perhaps you could do that again for me?"

Reassured, she smiled at him warmly, one hand brushing his chest. "As often as you like."

"What did I do to deserve you?" he asked. Picking up a rose petal he touched it to her cheek.

"You sang to me. You cared for me, watched over me, taught me, loved me," she answered, arching over him to touch her forehead to his. "If that isn't enough, what is?" and kissed his lips chastely.

He pulled her onto him to deepen her kiss, their breaths mingling, sealing their lives together. Their legs entwined where they lay, the feel of lace against his chest, the woolen trousers against her calves and thighs seemed _more_, more alive, more present than ever before. Their breathing deepened, their hearts racing as their passion flared and grew. Lacing his fingers through her hair, he held her firmly, drawing her tongue into his mouth and stroking it with his own, encouraging her to take the lead, wanting more but at her pace.

She sat up to take that lead, the feel of his broad chest adorned with hair thrilling under her hands as she ran them over his breasts, his nipples, getting small sounds out of him as she circled them with her fingers. They stiffened in response, and she bent to kiss them, her mouth and tongue washing over them, heard his soft "_Yesss_, my Angel," as she did. The smell of almonds and him rose erotically underneath her, and she closed her eyes a moment as desire rushed through her, running her cheek along his chest. The masculine pattern of his hair splayed outward and down, and she ran her hand over it, following it to where it ended over his ribcage, then down over his breastbone and below to his navel, his skin soft but so different from a woman's, his body hair soft yet firm. Her fingers continued down his belly, tracing the swirling patterns, to lodge in the waistband of his trousers.

Her soft hands on his chest, running over him, pressing down on top of him, were too much and not enough. His member surged upward between them, making itself known to both as he moaned helplessly, running his hands down her shoulders, under her arms to pull her around him, straddling him now. A hint of her own perfume wafted toward him, mingling with the oil and his familiar one, and he breathed deeply to better sample it, the rose petals creating the backdrop. Slowly he reached for a ribbon on her nightgown, pulled it open, exposing more to him, and then another ribbon, gradually parting her gown and letting him delight in her inviting breasts, her white skin shuddering as he ran his open hands over them, her breath sharp, fire racing through her and closing her eyes in rapture.

Her eyes still closed, she slipped her fingers under the high-waisted trouser buttons again, this time working them loose to make circles with the back of her hand over the hair on his belly, fanning out toward his hips and up, enjoying the sensation of the flat hair contrasted with the curling ones she could touch below the black wool. Opening her eyes again she met his gaze a moment, uncertain, but he smiled and told her, "Go on," and she did, moving further down his legs to peel back the fabric, revealing his full erection. She'd seen men before, in the recesses of the House, but she was not prepared for the reality of an aroused man under her, and, looking shyly at his hard length, slowly put out her hand to touch. His cock was so warm, the color so intriguing, the skin so soft over the iron-hard core, she was amazed. His scent rose higher now and mixed with the sensations underneath her, her answering flush reddening her cheeks.

Glancing at his face, his eyes were half closed; he took her other hand to place it on his hardness. "Touch me, my Angel," he told her, his voice low and seductive, and she was surprised at how sensitive yet enduring he was as she ran her hand over the tip, lightly tracing the slit there and drawing a gasp from him, then around the flared ridge and down the length, his hand guiding hers to grasp it and move up and down with such pressure she couldn't imagine it felt good. "Yes, like that, my love," he rasped, his breathing unsteady. He could do this, he thought as the tension built in his loins, he was so much older than she, he could hold off spending himself. He turned his head to cut down on the sensations that crashed through him; too late, he realized the mirror was still there, and it undermined him, showing him his beloved Christine as he'd only fantasized about. As she moved her hand and joined it with her other on the head his body betrayed him, startling her with his seed shooting out and over his belly, her hand where she still held him catching some of it as he arched under her. For a long moment he couldn't breathe.

"Forgive me, my Angel," he said when he could speak again, his breathing heavy. "That was not supposed to happen, not so soon, not tonight." He sounded vaguely embarrassed, but Christine was not upset; to the contrary, she knew she could please him now, and it gave her confidence.

He ran his hands through her hair, pulled her to his side. "You've never done that before, have you?" he asked. Even he could not watch her every moment of her life.

"No," she said, "Was that all right?" she asked hopefully.

"Perfect," he nodded, smiling into her eyes, his breathing calm again. "Over there," he indicated a washstand with ewer and basin, "please, hand me that cloth?" and began washing the evidence of her talent off him while she washed her hands by the basin.

Coming back to him, she watched as he got up to step gracefully out of his trousers, his long slender legs and bare feet making her heart beat faster. No one else she knew moved that way, elegance in every line. Looking away, she saw him reflected in the mirror, and was struck by what she saw. He did indeed have only one deformity; the rest of him was normal, even beautiful, and her last worry about marrying him evaporated.

Standing by the bed, he hesitated as she watched him, unsure of her reaction. Their eyes met in the mirror, her brown ones to his changing ones, and he realized he needn't have worried; hers were soft, admiring, and he smiled as she turned to him, running her hands along his arms, his chest, over his hips. His genitalia relaxed for the moment, she stared, fascinated. He let her look all she wanted, glad she did not seem repulsed. He laid down for her, glad of the respite to let her become used to him, his eyes warm and welcoming as she joined him on the bed, kissing his lips joyfully.

Tentatively, she stroked him again, lightly now, learning the rest of him. His low sound of appreciation let her continue, and she explored more thoroughly now, petting his kit while he was quiet, his textures and warmth under her hands a revelation to her. Never had she seen a man so close before, and certainly she had never touched. The feel of him gave her butterflies in her stomach, thrilling but nerve-wracking all the same, knowing what was expected of her. She wanted it, wanted him, but was scared, nonetheless. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she breathed heavily now.

Lying beside her, he began caressing her arms, her side, her delicate breasts. "Whatever you want," he whispered in her ear, "Show me, my Angel." Pressing kisses to her white skin, his hand circled her body in teasing strokes, heading lower and lower down her torso, running his fingers through the dark forest that hid her private world from view. His mouth opening hers, his tongue teased as well, sliding against her lips, her tongue, then slipping away again before she could lose herself in rhythm, before she could count on him holding still for her. With him maddeningly dancing in and out of her mouth her skin came alive, elfshot racing through her limbs and making her clutch at him. A throbbing ache spread through her belly, and she felt weak, hot and feverish. There was only one cure, and she laid on her back, letting her hand drift down to her secret garden, parting her legs and bending her knees to gain access. Her fingers slipped between her lips there, and she moaned into his mouth where he thrust his tongue in and out now, making her attempts to catch it futile, pushing her further into revealing her inmost desires.

He placed his hand over hers, his large fingers hesitant, finding through her touch the place women always touched, but he had seen only from a distance, their hands going down between their partners or by themselves. Surprised, he followed her movements under his hand, simply resting his fingers over hers, learning. Her unique perfume struck him and he let his own body speak, feeling his loins stiffen and swell again in response to hers, making him groan without thinking. "Very good, my Angel," he whispered into her mouth, "show me more."

Her hand was bolder now, dipping into her fountain to run back up and circle her prize, waiting for the right time to move in and claim it. He covered her body partway with his, pressing down on her hand with his own, riding her fingers as he rode her mouth. Her tongue reached for his, trying to entwine it, but he entered her fully now, swirling inside her mouth as his hand surrounded hers, bent on discovering her secret.

Just as she had hold of her demanding guest he slipped out of her mouth completely, covering her in tiny kisses as he worked his way down her body to where her hand lay under his. One arm wrapped around her thigh, he covered it too in kisses as he stroked her fingers, in turn stroking her hidden gem.

Gently he moved her hand aside, using his large one to spread out her garden to look and marvel. His fingers were slick with her wetness, and he inhaled the scent they carried, closing his eyes and feeling his own response. Her aroma became his world, her delicate deep-red petals beckoning him to explore their depths. There the seat of his pleasure lay, there another tiny opening in its own shroud, and there, where their fingers had been, a small bud, blossoming outward from its hood as he gingerly touched it again, a shy creature to be coaxed out of hiding, her prize. Barely making contact, he kissed her everywhere, his lips just brushing her nether ones delicately, a butterfly's wing beating against her flowers. Her prize responded, coming forward to be lovingly caressed. No longer afraid, it stood forth now, its hood thrown back to reveal itself.

Softly, slowly, he touched the tip of his tongue to her pearl, hearing her moaning beyond him. Her taste, her smell, her warm texture were all that mattered as he licked and sucked. Sliding his tongue up and down the folds of her warm, wet skin, he breathed deeply, his own hardness throbbing with want. Such sweet intoxication.

Hesitant, he placed two fingers at her gates, gently tracing the outline of her entrance, and was rewarded with her whispers urging him on. Carefully he thrust them in and was stopped almost immediately by her maid's ring, only one slightly making the trek beyond until it too reached the limit of its give. She began to shiver, nervousness at the import of his exploring making her tremble.

"No, my Angel," he told her, coming back up to kiss her lips, her own rich scent on his. "Now it is I who tell you not to be afraid, I won't hurt you. I would _never_ hurt you." His hand teased her breast, fondling her dark center, lightly grazing her nipple, and she turned her head, closing her eyes. "Touch me," he purred, his mouth moving to her breast. "Trust me," he breathed, his hand following the trail back to her dark forest, his palm covering her mound and moving back and forth over it gently, firmly. Claiming her mouth again he thrust his tongue inside, his fingers diving into her depths—and stopping as her maidenhead refused him further entrance. He tried just one finger with better success. Still, this might not be as easy as he'd hoped. One thing was certain; he would not hurt her even if it meant delaying their consummation.

Placing her hands where his had just been he moved them over her. "Show me," he whispered again, opening the box on the nightstand and leaning back to put on one of the condoms. Reluctantly she watched him, her hands going through the motions but her eyes never leaving him. Still she shook, and he laid full length against her when he was done, gathering her in his arms. Kissing her face, he whispered reassurances to her. "It's all right my Angel, you'll see, I won't do anything to hurt you, you'll see, you'll _see_, my dearest one, my darling," turning her head to him and kissing her mouth, his lips and tongue gentle but insistent, and she found herself opening further and further to his persuasion. Her shivering subsided a little, her arms going around him to pull him closer, wanting him but fearing the obstacle to that want might be too much for them both.

Seizing the oil bottle and removing the stopper, he poured a little onto his fingers, spreading some of it onto the condom where it covered him. Moving back to her treasure chest, he began caressing her again, fingers massaging the oil into her private garden, kissing her mouth once more and pulling her on top of him.

She lay over him an instant before moving her legs to straddle him, pressing him against her outer doors, her forest bending against this new visitor. "Let me," she said, moving back and forth over him until he was engulfed in the garden that waited beneath.

He gasped at her wetness, her warmth surrounding him, fire surging through him as she held his cock against her. She might have been holding his entire self, and he closed his eyes without thinking, arching his back.

She slowed as she stroked his hardness over her private world, her arms holding herself up on his shoulders. So good, so hot, so soft and hard at once, sensation washing over her and spreading out as his warmth caressed her where she sank him deeper along her waiting slickness, finally poised to ask entrance to the garden beyond the gates.

She lifted up slightly and, repositioning his hardness, tried to slide back down over him, but his entry was refused. She tried again, and again no progress was made. Finally he tried, grasping her hips, but Christine cried out as he pressed against her maidenhead, and he stopped cold.

Afraid, he let her slide down and to one side, cradling her next to him. "I'm sorry, I _can't_, I won't hurt you my Angel, we must find another way," he said, his voice rough with regret. Kissing her face, he stroked her cheek. "Forgive me," he said, ashamed.

Shaking, Christine clung to him, the enormity of what was happening frightening her, too. She was scared that the stories could be true, that penetrating her maiden's ring could be so difficult, and she buried her head against his shoulder as he soothed her, kissing her hair, running his hand down her back over the lace nightgown to hold her close. His arms tight around her, protecting her, she began to calm, thankful that he was not like the other men she'd heard of, who gave a girl's virginity little thought, unwilling to put aside their own pleasure, their crude selfishness all that drove them.

No. She would not give in to this hidden tyrant, and she remembered the nun's jewel. She reached for the velvet bag where it lay on the night table, opening it and withdrawing the _diletto_, ignoring his questioning "Christine?"

"Where did you get that?" he asked, astonished. He had thought her ignorant of such things. Obviously he was mistaken.

"Madame Giry…Fleur …gave it to me. She said it might be useful tonight," she answered, blushing furiously.

"Or other nights?" he smiled. Fleur was nothing if not thorough. Silently he thanked her for her foresight. Perhaps this night was not lost after all.

"I suppose," she answered, profoundly embarrassed. He'd never seen anything more fetching than her blush as she held it.

"Help me?" She pleaded. She picked up the almond oil, lifted the stopper off.

He took the _diletto_ from her, laid it next to her on the bed. Pouring some oil in his hand he reached for her sex, fingers sliding the oil down, up, along her lips there. Christine closed her eyes, her head thrown back. She was warm, and soft, and slick and beautiful, arching under him as his mouth suckled her nipple, kissing the skin of her torso, around her navel as he moved lower.

He let his fingers slip inside her lips, hearing her gasp, feeling her pressing back against him with surprising force to drive him in further. He could feel her maidenhead there, barring his entry, but let his beloved control his attempt to gain access. Just as he thought he might break through she backed off, a quiet "no," coming from her.

Dismayed, he pulled out and lightly circled her garden, his fingertips hovering. He would wait for her, as long as it took. Gently he moved up to the hood that covered her gem, hiding again, afraid. He pressed softly around it, hearing Christine's sharp breath, her legs tensing around him in surprise. Gradually she relaxed and sighed, her moans deepening as he continued, drawing her passion up as her prize came out, swelling in ardor. "_Yesss_, my Angel, that's right, let it happen," he told her, bending to caress the shy creature with his tongue as his fingers returned to her entrance, pushing against her maidenhead in slow strokes, undemanding.

She slid the porcelain _diletto_ down to where he pleasured her, delivering it to him, her breath coming faster now as her determination grew. Oh God, she wanted him to do this. Then, afterward, she could have her own Angel, free from fear.

He ran one hand over the _diletto_, coating it too in the oil, sliding it over her folds, watching her reaction. She inhaled sharply as he aimed its tip straight against her gated vault, slowly pressing inward. It too was stopped, just as his fingers had been. He pushed a little harder, and heard her stifled cry. Slender as it was, it would not fit without force. He would not hurt his Angel—the thought made his blood run cold. Slowly, he took her hands and placed them on the jewel, his own slipping away to caress the insides of her thighs, raining soft kisses on them, waiting.

She felt the _diletto_ being turned over to her, held its slick length against her. She knew why he gave it back, tried to make it fit smoothly but it would not. Why had she been able to use the contraceptive, and not this? she thought anxiously. She pushed harder, but again the gates were barred to her silent petitioner. Once more she tried, firmly now, but this time the oil made the _diletto_ too slippery and it refused to obey her. Surely this couldn't be right. Alarmed, she met her Angel's patient gaze where he lay between her thighs. His hands caressed her, his eyes on her face, hovering, waiting for her. Whatever she wanted. Whatever she wanted, she had only to say. Except for this one thing, and suddenly she could bear it no more.

"I can't! I can't go on like this!" she cried, her desperation finding voice at last. There was nothing else for it. She no longer feared pain, or blood, or anything else. She knew only that she wanted her husband, her Angel, to make love with her, and damn the details. Her eyes tore at him, spearing his soul. "Please, don't make me do this. I don't want that cold, hard thing, I want warm, living flesh! I want my _husband_," she pleaded, her eyes filling with tears. "I don't want to remember my wedding night with anything but you. Please, Angel, I don't _care_, I don't _care_ anymore, just love me! I want my night to be _you_!"

Shaken, he could refuse her nothing. "All right," he managed in a hoarse whisper, his hands unsteady as he came back up to her, one arm supporting him while his free hand ran over her face, her hair, meeting her eyes mere inches away. If it meant that much to her, he would put aside his fear and do what she wanted. It was her very first time, _their_ very first time, and whatever she wanted, if it was in his power, he would grant her.

Whispering "For you," to his Angel, his mouth met hers and danced, twining with her tongue, devouring but gently, oh so gently. Their tongues kissed as they touched them together, slid them over each other. His heart pounding, his whole body shook at the prospect of having to be the one to solve this, perhaps injuring his Angel in the process. He had to think, his dread pushing his intellect to the fore to confront this problem. There had to be a solution, there simply had to be. There was too much tension, frustrating them both, and worse, it was upsetting his Angel.

He knew little of women, but he had seen many couples over the quarter century he had lived at the House, and he understood architecture, angles and degrees. He realized there was a solution and coaxed her to turn, draping her legs over the edge of the bed to just touch the floor beneath. Yes, the height was correct. Force might be required, but the angle was just as important, and both would be assisted by the right position. A spark of hope began to grow in his breast.

Gently he nudged her thighs farther apart with his own, standing between them on the carpet. Placing his hands on either side of her shoulders, he waited while she guided him to her entrance, gasping as she opened to him. Paradise. Such warmth, such tight softness. So wet. His gaze went to the mirror opposite them, and he concentrated on the image there, freezing this moment in his mind. Perhaps he could stay like this forever.

"Please," she whispered, pulling on his shoulders where he was raised above her. "For me," she pleaded.

He couldn't speak, but kissed her breast, swirling his tongue around her nipple as he sucked, willing her ardor to rise again. Slipping his hand down between them he found her pearl, rubbing softly around it. Still he did not move, waiting for her reaction, then felt the rush of wetness around his member where he lodged just outside her gates. Her moan was music to him, and she urged him on, telling him she wanted him, running her fingers along his shoulders and down his arms, over his hand where his thumb slipped up and down over her secret, pushing against him strongly in desire. Slowly he pressed forward, and was brought up short. He couldn't move further without forcing her maid's ring.

Meeting her eyes, agony gripped him. God, he wanted her, but he couldn't bring himself to hurt her. She nodded, the whispered endearments spilling from her lips almost too fast for them to register in his ears, and he realized he would have to do this, that she needed him to, even if it meant pain. It was no longer a choice. "Yesyesyes, _please_, Erik, husband/love/_Angel_, _please_!" With that he nodded, then backed up slightly and slid in hard. Christine cried out as her maidenhead _gave_, and then he was in, and they fit, and it was perfect. He held absolutely still, sheathed inside his Angel, her warmth encasing him, flooding through him, closing his eyes at the sensation. It was over. Opening his eyes, he met her joyful ones. Relief washed over them both, and they kissed, grinning.

Lifting up slightly, he looked down at their joined bodies, thrilled to sink back down into her softness, sinking deeper and deeper until he felt swallowed up by the welcoming warmth around him. He pulled back once more, further now, and sank in again, her arms and legs holding his body to her as her velvet wetness held him inside. Once more he looked down, overjoyed that his fears had been for nothing.

Oh, God. Blood. Bright red, several streaks appearing on the condom where it covered him. "Christine, did I hurt you?" he asked, panicking. There should not be blood, he thought, but everything he knew also told him yes, there could be.

"No," she assured him, clutching his shoulders, "No, my Angel, I'm all right, it was nothing, a small pain, nothing more," she said, desperation in her eyes. "_Please_, stay!" she implored, caressing his face where he hesitated above her. His eyes searched hers, pain in them at the pain he'd inflicted on her. But he saw no blame there, no regret, only worry that he would leave her and take himself away.

Again, he could not speak. Nodding, he sank into her once more, and she sighed in relief, pulling his head to her breast, gasping as he sucked her nipple and moaned himself. It was so good, being inside his Angel, his regret warring with the sensations that flooded through him, regret losing as he found their rhythm, sliding her forward on the bed to join her there, his mouth kissing hers as his cock now kissed her womb. The mirrors showed him a thousand reflections of their passion, a thousand times repaying him his longing through all the lonely nights. Now she began to truly writhe, moaning and whimpering as they moved together, oblivious to anything else but his touch, his hands, his mouth, his cock moving inside her as the rest of him moved outside. Bliss.

She dared not let go of him as he thrust inside her, afraid he might stop if he didn't have her constant encouragement. "Yes, yes, more, please, oh God, _love_ me, my Angel, I _need_ you, yes, _more_!" Having him at last, his hardness filling her, she reached for her pearl, but he covered her hand in his and did it himself, intent on making her first time complete _by_ himself, penance for having given his Angel even a moment's distress. Her hands went to his shoulders and she clung to him, crying out in rapture as her body shook of its own will, his will, and peaked, sounds coming from her she no longer knew as her own as ecstasy shot through her.

Feeling, hearing her as she reached her climax, he let himself go as well, thrusting hard inside her one last time to hold her tight as he came, glad it was over yet wishing it would never end. His Angel, at long last, was truly his.

Spent, he laid on the bed with his love, breathing hard; got up quickly to fetch towels, coming back to his wife, his Angel whom he'd injured against his dearest wishes. She opened her legs for him when she saw his intentions, and was amazed at the tenderness with which he carefully touched her, the towel soft as velvet, tucking another one under her when he was satisfied he'd removed as much blood as he could. In truth, it was mere drops; but to him it might as well have been rivers, and he cringed as it continued to seep from her. A few more moments to gather his wits, and he rolled the condom off, setting the sheath aside.

In his mind he heard again the horrifying sounds of that night so long ago. He'd always held himself apart from such base impulses; now he was as bad as they were. Lying near his Angel, he pressed his good side against her soft belly, putting his arms around her hips and closing his eyes. What had he become?

She ran her hand over his hair, around his mask as he lay there, remorseful. How precious he was to her; she could not believe her good fortune in marrying such a sensitive, caring man, who loved her so very much. Yes, she was a little sore, but the fleeting pain she'd experienced was nothing compared to his guilt over having caused it, when in truth there was nothing else he could have done and it was at her insistence. He had no one to blame but her, yet insisted on blaming himself. "It's all right, Angel," she murmured, and heard his indrawn breath catch. The fires of passion banked, it was easy to let himself feel he'd failed her. "I wanted you to," she told him softly. He only shook his head in response, looking away, and held very still.

She pivoted around to kiss his forehead, stroke his face lying close to hers on the bedsheets now, the rose petals under them crushed. "Please, Angel, don't," she told him quietly, "I have no regrets, why must you?"

"There was…a girl," he began, his eyes full of pain, "years ago. I saw how she was treated, by a man much older than she. She was younger than you, younger even than I was at the time…" and his voice broke, silencing him.

"Oh, God," Christine blurted out. No wonder he'd been so afraid. Look at the parallels. She caressed him, her hands steady as they moved over his face, his neck, his shoulder. "You could never be like that," she told him fervently. "If you could ever be such a man, I would never have fallen in love with you, Angel."

"You're sure you're all right?" he asked when he could speak again, his eyes locked on hers, pleading.

"Yes, perfectly," she replied, smiling as she kissed his forehead. "And now there is nothing else to stand between us," she added, her eyes warm, and kissed him deeply. Joy began to flower in his heart, and he let himself return her kiss, driving that horrifying night far away.

"Would you care for a shower?" he asked at last, petting her hair. The oil was starting to dry where she'd massaged his scars. He never could stand feeling unclean.

"A shower? Not a bath, a shower? You have one of those?" she asked, excited. In the whole House, only Carlotta had a shower, and that was to lure her back two seasons ago when once again she'd threatened to storm out. Of course no one but La Carlotta could ever use it, whether she was there or not. Still, she'd had a peek.

"Yes, and now so do you," he answered, kissing her hand. "All I have is now yours as well." He rose, bringing a wine-red dressing gown for himself and a white one he'd bought for Christine, wrapping it around her lace nightgown. Together they moved the mirrors back to where they'd been, covering them again with their drapes, then he brought her behind a velvet curtain to the elaborate bathroom he'd constructed. The claw-footed bathtub stood in the middle, an Oriental curtain ringing the metal pipes that rose up out of it. A beautiful carpet covered the floor, cushioning the cold stone under their feet.

She put out her hand to touch the pipes, run her hand over the rim of the porcelain bathtub the shower stood in. The shower was beautiful, like everything else down here. The pipes ran around in three semicircles, showerheads spraying out from three sections on each one for a total of nine that ran from overhead to mid-body. Carlotta had only five. It was going to feel so good to wash in clean water instead of a small bath, where the water accumulated soap and dirt.

"How did you get it down here?" she marveled.

"I built it here myself," he answered, delighted with her reaction. "It's better than Carlotta's," he added, smiling mischievously. Handing her soap, he followed that with a washcloth and turned it on for her, showing her the controls. When it was warm enough she stepped in carefully, an enchanted smile on her face. Setting out towels on the dressing table nearby, he moved away to find a comfortable place to wait, but within earshot if she needed anything.

"Erik," she called, standing in the spray. "You built it large enough for two."

"I…can't," he answered, "not like this."

It took her a moment to realize he meant that he was still actually dressed. If the mask and wig were to become wet they would be ruined. Odd; she had forgotten. She turned the water off, stepping out to drip all over the carpet outside. She drew a line down his bare chest with her wet finger. "Then take them off?" she asked, a reassuring smile forming. What lay underneath was no secret to her; she had only withheld the request out of respect for him.

He blinked several times, unsure what to think. Surely she couldn't mean she wanted such a monster with her. "You're certain?" he asked, wanting the words he never thought to hear.

"Yes," came her firm answer.

Slowly, he slid the dressing gown off his shoulders, folding it on the table, then took off the wig, setting it atop the gown. Even more slowly, he removed the golden Angel's wing and let it join its cousin. He now stood truly naked in front of her, trying not to turn his bad side too far away from her vision. He waited for her to say something.

"That's better," she said simply, and took his hand to step once again into the enormous shower. Turning the water back on, they washed, sharing the cloth and soap, his reluctance fading as she seemed perfectly content to look on his ruined face, kissing him there when he presented that side out of necessity. She took the cloth, running the soap over his shoulder, then made the mistake of standing in back of him, out of his sight. Quick as a flash, he'd turned to face her again.

"Don't you want the oil off your back? she asked over the noise.

"Yes," he nodded. Reluctantly he turned only his side to her, and this time she was careful to stay where he could see her, over-reaching her arm although it was awkward. He tried to follow her hand with his eyes, unable to relax enough to even turn his gaze away. She crossed in front of him to wash his other side while he again watched her. He was torn, she could see that. He wanted to trust her but simply could not, probably had not been touched like this in twenty years, when Fleur looked after him. It would take time, but she vowed she would someday earn his trust.

Whatever she wanted. That was what he'd said. A wonderful thought occurred to her, standing together in the warm spray. She ran the cloth to his front, over his chest, slowly making circles around his own breasts and nipples, eliciting a low moan from him. She ran the cloth downward over his belly, through the thick hair covering him, and to her delight his member began to stir again.

Handing the cloth to him she deliberately gave him her back, keeping her eyes resolutely forward. "Please?" she asked, holding on to the pipes that doubled as railings. He rinsed the cloth and wrung it out, getting the oil out of it, then ran the soap over her shoulders, down to the small of her back…and briefly hesitated, then continued down between her lower cheeks, the water making rivulets that followed his hands. Gasping, she leaned forward, spreading her legs for him to go further. Heart pounding, he did, sliding the soap lower down, slathering it over each secret place there and through to the black forest that covered her Venus mound.

She pressed back against the soap; he set the bar aside to follow with his hands, gliding sensuously in little circles, running water over and around her buttocks, her cleft, her dark rosette, the sensitive transition point and on toward her vault of heaven, sliding up and between her lips to run his fingers over the folds that guarded her secret. Her breath was heavy, measured, as he molded his body to hers, his hard length between them and demanding attention as he held her close, one hand cupping her breast as the other explored her nether regions from the front. Covering her from behind she could not see his face, and he forgot his ugliness as they breathed in unison now, the shower beginning to run cold after so long a time. His knees were weak, and he struggled to stay upright as he reached over to turn the water off. Turning quickly, she caught his mouth in a deep, frantic kiss, sucking on his tongue as it entered her. God, she wanted him, and she wanted him _now_.

They fairly burst out of the shower, kissing as they dripped toward the bed, Christine climbing onto the petal-covered sheets as he stood near, reaching for another condom. She took it from his hand, teasing him first, taking his cock into her mouth while stroking him with her hands. Steadying himself on her shoulders as she pleasured him, he grabbed handfuls of her hair, so soft in contrast to his hardness in her wet mouth. "Christine, please, no more," he managed, knowing he would not last much longer if she continued. Taking pity on him, she took his member and dressed him appropriately as the blood roared in his ears. Never had he been so impatient for anything in his life.

Turning her back to him she dropped onto all fours, inviting him inside her open gates now as she raised her hand to stroke her hidden gem. All thought fled as he knelt behind her, bent over her, sliding his cock along her lips, probing for her entrance. "Yes! There!" she cried out in need, holding very still as he slowly filled her from behind, going deeper than he thought possible. As he reached the end of his length and buried himself completely, she shuddered, a satisfied "Ah!" breaking from her.

He moved, and she moved with him, against him, sounds spilling from her that had no name, no language. She threatened to throw him off, she writhed so much. Fitting his body to hers, sliding his cock in and out of her, he held still a moment, smiling at her whimper as she reached back against him, seeking him out. He was deliciously surprised as she grabbed his hand and pressed it to her breast, making his fingers squeeze around her nipple, arching her hips back into him. Kissing her shoulder as he laid his body onto hers, he slid out of her completely, raising her up to lean back against him. "Come for me, my Angel," he growled low into her ear, his tongue warm as he slid it against her neck, one hand reaching to dislodge hers and polish her pearl himself. "Come, my Angel!" he demanded now, using one hand to caress her breasts, skimming over her nipples, as his other worked her gem farther down. His cock pressing up hard against her back, he slid it over her where it would do her no good. Enjoying her protests far too much, he decided to take pity on his needful wife. Her hand replaced his as he left her secret place, her wild moan his music of the night as he lowered her onto the bed, pulled back and slid down to feed his cock to her, commanding her to come as he thrust in hard and deep, again and again, her hand never leaving her secret. Crying out as he growled "Come for _Me_!" her body exploded in waves of rapture, her wetness clenching around his cock rapidly to send him over the edge into the little death as well.

They were still wet, and now she shivered as their passion cooled. "Let me," he said, leaving the bed to once again fetch towels, taking an extra moment to remove his sheath. One towel was enormous, and he coaxed her to stand, wrapping her in it, warding off the cold. Tenderly he dried her with a smaller one, in places peeling back the large towel to reach. She felt either very small or very special, like a queen. As he reached her breasts he slowed, staring at them for a long moment before kissing each one. Kneeling down to dry her legs, she opened them for him as he ran one hand up their length, the towel following in the other, the feel of her skin a revelation to him. Coming to the top of her thighs, he very, very gently touched her between them, hoping he would not see blood. He swallowed hard as his fingertips came away red. For the thousandth time he asked if he'd hurt her. "No," came the thousandth reply.

It was not until later that he realized he hadn't replaced the mask.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 

Fleur had told the House that Christine would be away tonight; she and her secret husband could spend the night together without fear of gossip. They were both very tired now; the nerve-wracking anticipation and dread had melted away, the calm after the storm. Erik donned a clean nightshirt, open down the chest, white linen with long sleeves. It could be cold once all but the most essential candles were put out down here. Christine put on her lovely gown again, tying the black ribbons with his help, and more than a few soft kisses. It was exciting and new just to have someone, anyone to sleep with; sleeping as bride and groom was beyond special.

Erik had built a fully equipped bathroom with sink and toilet. Brushing teeth down here was odd but comforting; it reminded her of her father's house by the sea.

He stood by the bed, waiting for his bride before getting in. He appeared as his true self now; when he made to put the mask and wig back on, she'd stopped him with her kisses, telling him she loved him as he was. He was deeply moved by her acceptance, felt his eyes filling with tears at that. She came to him and, standing together, he caressed her face; this night was beyond anything he'd ever imagined. "I can't believe you're here, not a dream," he whispered, his hand stroking her hair, her neck.

"There's nowhere I would rather be…husband," she replied, and again the love in her eyes struck him. "My beautiful Angel." She ran her hands up his arms, pressing close to kiss him full on the mouth, just as she'd kissed him the very first time.

"Please?" he asked, gesturing for her lie down. She did, then leaned back and held out her arms to him. He would never be able to deny those eyes, her outstretched arms making his heart turn over. Gladly he joined his love, his Angel, his _wife_ in his bed, _their_ bed now, wrapping his arms around her and laying her head on his shoulder. He held her tight as she snuggled into his arms, stroking her hair. "It's too quiet," she said, the sounds down here the exact opposite of all the House noise she was used to on the top floor. "Sing to me?" she asked, and he smiled at that. He sang, of her beauty, of her love, of his great good fortune in finding someone to return his love. It was not long before her eyes closed and her breathing became deep, still held in his embrace. He held her tight, his body pressed to hers, watching her long after she fell asleep.

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